


Variations of Violence

by moiracle



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Reader-Insert, Slow Burn, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 10:26:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4475879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moiracle/pseuds/moiracle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before she came along, he had always felt as though there was a storm chasing him, open-jawed and strong enough to swallow him whole.</p>
<p>With her, he <em>is</em> the storm.</p>
<p>[Nathan Prescott x Female Reader]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Variations of Violence

**Author's Note:**

> Initially, this was meant as just a drabble for a friend, but it ended up running off into its own thing. I'm shameless and not sorry in the least. Fair warning: it starts of fairly light and fluffy but will get a lot less so as the story goes on.

You wake up and your head is pounding something awful.

There’s a distinct blare in the background; you recognise it immediately as your morning alarm. Your hand reaches over to your side out of instinct, searching blindly for your phone and fumbling to turn it off.

You grasp at the air for a full minute before you realise that you’re neither near your bedside nor on your bed; your fingers come into contact with the keys of a laptop, and in pulling your hand back, you brush against a pile of papers.

Fucking all-nighters, disorienting you like that.

Eventually, you lift your face off your desk and look around for your phone, silencing it the second you fish it from under your pencil case.

Ever since you’ve started at Blackwell, you’ve had to put in extra work to keep up. You weren’t a bad student, by any means, but neither were you the kind to excel without continuous effort — and so far, you’ve had to put in a lot of it.

Despite your bleary eyes struggling to make out the time on your phone (8:02 AM, you eventually discover), you’re alert enough to notice the little green bubble indicating a text message.

It’s a private number — and part of that sets off weird warnings in your head — but you swipe at the screen to read it anyway.

**RECEIVED:** _dude where the fuk r u???? ive been waiting ove r 20 mins_

Okay, maybe those warning sirens were unfounded. A quick glance underneath the text shows you that it’s dated last night at nine; it doesn’t take much deduction at all to realise that it probably wasn’t meant for you. 

Typically, in these situations, you would just ignore the whole thing and move on with your day, but you can’t help imagining some poor idiot still waiting around for their ‘dude’ eleven hours (and twenty minutes!) later. It’s highly unlikely, but it’s amusing enough to kick you into sending a message back.

**SENT:** _sorry, i think you’ve got the wrong number. but i hope whoever you were waiting for was worth it. ;)_

Polite, with a tiny splash of nonsensicality. Just the way you like to roll when interacting with strangers.

You’re content to leave it at that, but to your complete surprise, your phone buzzes no more than thirty seconds later with a response. You hadn’t expected one at all, much less for it to come so quickly. 

**RECEIVED:** _yeh i kinda figured that out myself. i waited for n hour. not fukin worth it at all_

How eloquent. You grin a little at the screen, taking only a few seconds to contemplate your options before deciding to type out your reply.

**SENT:** _was it that bad a date?_

You barely have to wait for the next one to come in; you can almost feel the defensive tone seeping through each pixellated letter.

**RECEIVED:** _wtf_

**RECEIVED:** _it wasnt a date_

**SENT:** _ah, i see. THAT bad, then._

**RECEIVED:** _?????_

**RECEIVED:** _did u even read wat i said_

As you shift around your room, shuffling around for a towel and your toiletries, you register that you probably shouldn’t continue the conversation. Although it was mildly entertaining company, you don’t know the first thing about whoever it is you’re talking to; did they even live in Arcadia Bay? Or Oregon? Or even America, for that matter? Were you texting overseas and wasting five bucks each time you sent a smiley?

A hasty check through your credit proved that, at the very least, your little back-and-forth was not costing you a fortune. 

**SENT:** _haha, sorry, i was just kidding! i believe you, random phone guy (girl?)._

**RECEIVED:** _random phone guy?? tht sounds like n insult_

**RECEIVED:** _and 4 the record, not a girl._

**SENT:** _pfft, noted. but i don’t exactly have your name to call you by, do i?  
_

You’ve finally gathered your needed shower supplies in your arms when the next message comes in; the blaring letters almost make you drop them all.

**RECEIVED:** _rite, forgot. im nathan_

Oh, of course. _Of course_ Random Phone Guy would just so happen to have the same name as the biggest douche-canoe in all of Arcadia Bay.

Granted, you’ve only ever had one interaction with the infamous Nathan Prescott of Blackwell; he’d walked into the science lab one morning before class started to get all up in some other guy’s face. Usually you’d have just shrugged it off and let them sort out their issues on their own — but he was being so fucking _noisy_ , and you had a test later, and jesus christ, man, have some consideration!

So you’d blown up in his face and said some not-so-nice things; in response, he’d told you to mind your own business and called you some very-not-nice names — Miss Grant had to eventually kick him out to get the lesson going. You’d managed to stay out of his way after that incident, but it still left a sour taste in your mouth.

With your luck, obviously the first perfectly pleasant conversation you’ve had with someone in a long while would remind you of that rotten golden boy.

It isn’t until you reread the text and contemplate your reply that you stop that train of thought, shifting instead into one that might be even more upsetting. Rather than just being _a_ Nathan, could this actually be _the_ Nathan? For one, that would explain the guy’s absolutely horrendous typing style, and two, you’re pretty sure someone outside Arcadia Bay would have lowered odds at getting hold of your number (and as far as you know, there’s only one Nathan in the general vicinity; it’s not like the town needs another).

You’re not sure you want to find out, and so you hastily type out your last reply, the message lacking the lighthearted enthusiasm of those prior to it.

**SENT:** _okay, cool. hi nathan. gotta go take a shower now, so i’ll talk to you later or something._

You toss your phone onto your bed, rushing out of your room to the showers and pointedly ignoring the telltale buzz of yet another response.


End file.
